“I’ve worried about many troubles in my life, most of which never happened.” — Anonymous
Camping in a pine forest this past work week has been a nice respite from the grueling day after day of long drives, moving west across the continent to the coast. As the day arrives to do the last leg of this migration, I feel the familiar worries arising. How will The Tiny tow? Will there be wind? Will there be rain? Will the 110-degree weather melt my tires? Will the truckers be sane? What if we break down?
I find myself checking the weather report hourly. I’m asking advice from fellow travelers about alternate routes. Should I go south to avoid the rain? Is it 2 lanes each way? What make most sense? What is safest?
This line of worry several days out from my departure is exhausting. And it’s uncalled for. I have experience. I’ve driven cross country several times. I’ve towed this trailer thousands of miles. All of it has been unfailingly safe and drama-free. The biggest issue I had was as a new trailer owner. I failed to secure the jockey wheel and it dropped down and dragged on the ground for a few miles until I could exit a long bridge and check it out. That happened, and I and The Tiny survived. I fixed it, and I learned my lesson.
As far as I can figure, the problem is that when I worry, I am living in the future but without my wits, which are right here in the moment. So I’m projecting what it will be like out there on the road with the possible winds and rain and truckers coming up too close behind me. But in my projection I am not accounting for my intelligence, my savvy, my instincts, the grace that surrounds me. I can imagine the troubles, but not my own right actions. That thing that lives within me — which intuitively knows what to do most of the time — does not exist in my future fantasies. That thing resides in me right now, as I type these words. At this moment, I know what to do now.
I had massive fear before I began this particular journey. At the time, I hadn’t towed The Tiny for about a month as I lived in it in the back yard, and stocking it for travel, getting it and me ready. Back then I felt the old worry creeping in. Will I be able to hitch up? What will I forget to do or bring? Will I become disoriented, or too tired, or frightened? I hinted to my sister that she should fly out to New Orleans and take the trip with me. But she is a practical person, and when she thought through the hassles we’d have each night finding a second form of lodging for her, as The Tiny is too small for both of us, it seemed like a worse option than me driving alone.
Then, the day came for my departure, and I wheeled The Tiny out from the back yard for the last time, and pulled out of the driveway for the last time. I’d gotten no more than 2 blocks away when the thought occurred to me: Oh, I’ve so got this.
And while I’ve had fatigue on the road, and a desire to get to my next waypoint, I’ve felt absolutely no fear during my driving time.
I’m counting on those memories. It’s played out in so many ways that worrying about a future event is just projection, a fantasy with no grounding. My guess is that when I pack up at this camp, and follow my list to hitch up safely, and me and the dog and The Tiny and the tow vehicle start moving together toward the campground exit, the full force of the present moment will envelope us and the thought will emerge:
Hello Interstate! Here we come!